


Prize Enough for Me

by StrivingArtist



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU foundation, Alternate Ending, Angry Bilbo, Angst with a Happy Ending, Durin's Champion AU, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending, M/M, Memories, Now with Thorin, Revenge, Romance, Sappy Thorin, Slow Burn, Thorin guilt, Vengeful Bilbo, Way more romantic than the summary says, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were cries behind him as he ran back onto the ice and into pursuit of the murderer; he ignored them. There would be cries and weeping aplenty as the battle concluded. Tears beyond measure when the company found Thorin and his nephews dead. He had seen the eagles approaching, screaming fury from above and decimating the legions of orcs and goblins that had, only minutes earlier, had victory in reach. The battle was over, but the price was too steep.</p><p>The ring slipped onto his finger as his grasp on Sting shifted. He had gone on his hunt."</p><p>..............</p><p>After falling in love months earlier with the Dwarven King, when Bilbo sees Thorin stabbed on Raven Hill, he decides to find vengeance.</p><p> </p><p>EDIT: This One-Shot is now a Two-Shot. You get to have Thorin's side too!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This follows a strange amalgamation of the PJ movies and the book and a bit of AU.  
> More notes at the end.

Months.

That's how long it had taken Bilbo to finally track down the pale orc. They were high in the Grey Mountains to the North, half buried by snow and alone.

Something in him had snapped when he watched Azog's blade pierce through Thorin's chest. The giant orc had wrenched the blade out and retreated. Bilbo had not waited, he had not stopped to check on the King. Surely dead, he had known that. Stabbed. Impaled. Surely dead, and he could not have withstood the heartbreak of seeing his dwarf cold and still. As dead as Fili's body behind him. The crown prince had been thrown from the tower when Azog had noticed the Hobbit. Bilbo had stood there, guilt wracked that he could not have moved faster, reached the hill sooner, could not have prevented that death.

There were cries behind him as he ran back onto the ice and into pursuit of the murderer; he ignored them. There would be cries and weeping aplenty as the battle concluded. Tears beyond measure when the company found Thorin and his nephews dead. He had seen the eagles approaching, screaming fury from above and decimating the legions of orcs and goblins that had, only minutes earlier, had victory in reach. The battle was over, but the price was too steep.

The ring slipped onto his finger as his grasp on Sting shifted. He had gone on his hunt.

Bolg had been killed during the battle, but there were others. A few dozen, no more, were following Azog as they fled North. Bilbo followed, quiet and quick, picking them off one at a time, the bodies left to rot where they fell. They kept him on the right path. The orcs followed a trail he could not fathom. He followed them. He was never seen, and he was largely uninjured. The gashes and bruises were left untended, inconsequential to his final aim. Betimes he believed he was being followed, but his only proof was a slight tingling on his neck.

Sometimes it was days before he could catch them again. They ran faster, and were less scrupulous in obtaining their meals. Eventually they would halt though, and Bilbo always found them. His only guess of destination was Angmar. If the Defiler reached those gates, Bilbo would lose his quarry. Likely forever.

But that was not his fate.

Now, finally,  _finally_ , he was standing on the edge of a clearing, the bodies of two sentries cooling in the snowy dark behind him, and he was staring at Thorin's killer. The orc snarled and stared, knew he was there but unable to see him. Bilbo's mouth moved, something between a grin and a grimace was twisting at his lips.

The snow beneath his feet was solid, if he was careful he left no imprint.

The clearing was silent except for the Orc's snarls and growls. Waiting for the final opportunity, the fear of being followed was revived, pushing him to move before he could be caught. Bilbo snuck closer, heart thundering at the prospect of his long anticipated vengeance. All at once he crossed the last distance and rammed Sting through the fell creature's throat. Limbs twitching, the vile thing collapsed, and Bilbo slipped off his ring.

He wanted the orc to know he had been slain by nothing more than a halfling, more a grocer than a warrior.

Stupid.

Even dying, gasping for breath, Azog was enormously strong, and a killer. The claw-like appendage caught him in the side as the orc lashed out at him. Bilbo ripped Sting from his throat, twisting it and opening a chasm in the pale throat. Both crumpled.

He grinned again as the blue glow of Sting flickered and ended.

Azog was dead.

Bilbo was dying.

Blood leaked sluggishly from his side, staining the snow, and his will went with it. He had his justice. He had taken his revenge for the death of Thorin Oakenshield. "Forgive me." He asked, knowing and not caring any longer that the only ears he wanted to hear him never would.

Darkness and cold crept nearer.

Bilbo stared up at the star speckled sky, bright points winking down at him between the flakes of falling snow. A small smile curved his lips for the first time since he had stolen the Arkenstone. His dwarf-king was buried by now, his heirs with him. If he had stayed he could have seen them laid to rest in honor beneath the halls of Erebor. He could have taken his life in hand and returned to his quiet house under the hill. "No. This is prize enough for me, Thorin." he said sadly, recalling their long past conversation, "It should have been you to kill him, but at least he is dead at last." He felt inside his pocket, finding his acorn there. What little sound there was grew distant and hollow.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he dragged Sting up to lay on his chest. It was far more likely he would be found by scavengers or beasts or orcs than by some compassionate soul, but if he was, he would keep what dignity he could.

Far away he heard voices calling to him. His fingers tightened around the acorn, remembering the smile and happiness he had lit in the king's eyes, and trying to hold off the echoes of Thorin's rage. It had all been in vain, but Bilbo knew it had been the only course to take. As much as it pained him then to betray the company, as much as it pained him now to recall the pain in Thorin's eyes, it had been the only course to take. If the threads of their lives had been woven as something other than they were, he could not say what he and Thorin would have become. Maybe in many lives they never knew each other at all. But in this life, what was left of it, he wished that either of them had given voice to the ember of attachment and affection that had grown between them.

It was as pleasant a thought as any he could find to have echoing in his mind as he drifted into the void.

* * *

It had been during the perilous trek down the Carrock that he had first begun to wonder at the hidden side of Thorin Oakenshield. Still bruised and bleeding, aching from fresh wounds and trembling from the harrowing battle and near miraculous escape into the air, all of them were at least a little bit off kilter. Still able to feel the crushing embrace of their leader, Bilbo was shaking, and had retreated to the tail of the party to hide it from the others.

What had possessed him to do something so foolish, he could not guess. He was a sensible, practical hobbit, not inclined to foolish bravery like his Took brethren. He was a rational little fellow. He was.

He was also the first of the company to climb off of the tree and place himself between their fallen leader and the drooling beast set on finishing him.

That was the piece of recent history he picked at as he carefully stepped down the steep stone path. The subsequent apology and embrace from the dwarf in question had similarly thrown him, but his primary concern was the mad dash to the prince's aid. The closest he had got to an explanation involved a combined impact of Thorin saving him from the cliff side and his frankly grandiloquent declaration to help them retake their home. Nothing could rationally explain away his vow to the dwarven prince, and he had reluctantly determined that his mind and his heart had spoken without consulting his head.

Half an explanation, but he had found nothing better.

The sun was at its peak and his legs were moving stably again when Thorin fell back from the group to walk beside him.

Silently.

More concerned with masking the on-going shaking of his hands, he did not try to fill the increasingly uncomfortable quiet. They travelled on for some time, and Bilbo saw the dwarf-king start and abort several times before successfully speaking.

"I would prefer you not be killed due to a conflated sense of bravery." It shocked him so much he stopped walking entirely. Thorin turned back to look at him, utterly sincere, utterly unaware of the ludicrousness of his pronouncement. Try as he did not to, Bilbo smiled, chuckled, and then laughed aloud.

"A-a-apologies, Master Oakenshield." he stammered at the puzzled dwarf, "I'm glad to hear you have come around to my way of thinking." Thorin's eyes undertook an odd sequence of twitches that Bilbo attributed to the less than respectful tone he had used.

They walked onward.

* * *

He was still pondering the previous riddle of the dwarf-prince when it was complicated further.

Bilbo cut free the last of the dwarves from the spiderwebs and began herding them out of the nest. The dwarves were slow moving and largely defenseless as they dragged their feet and fought off the drowsiness of spider poison. Bilbo saw that they needed a greater distraction. He gave them sharp orders to keep moving and warned them he was going to slip away and divert the spiders that were fast approaching. Sting in hand, and the ring in his pocket calling to him, he was about to run when Thorin caught his wrist.

Neither spoke. The dwarf angled his head and gave him a substantial look. It was an order and a threat and plea all rolled into a single glare. Bilbo nodded once, trying to signal back a promise and all the concern he felt for their safety.

Maybe if there had not been a bevy of outsized arachnids bearing down on the company one or both of them would have spoken. Attempted to at least.

Instead, Bilbo ran, vanishing as he passed behind a tree, and leading the spiders away from his friends.

* * *

In Thranduil's cells, Bilbo found himself visiting Thorin far more than the others. Ostensibly it was to update him on the escape. That pretense, combined with his isolation from the others, had Bilbo spending long stretches sitting on the floor outside of Thorin's cell.

They still spoke little.

There were guards nearby, and any hint of a guard approaching-already a soft sound due to delicate elvish footfalls-sent Bilbo flitting away.

When they did speak, it was about the cells of the others, about the locations of the exits, about the rotation of the guards, and about the approaching feast. Only once did they converse on something other than the immediate dilemma.

"You are a rare gift to have on our quest, Master Burglar. It seems that Gandalf's judgement was greater than I expected."

"Don't say that yet, you are still imprisoned. So are the others. I've not found a way out. And we are running out of time before Durin's Day." Bilbo shook his head guiltily.

"And I'd be dead thrice over you were not on this quest with us." Thorin said lightly.

Bilbo's stomach twisted, "Dying isn't a joke. You've a kingdom to rebuild."

"I wasn't-"

"No, you can't make light of dying Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. You can't leave this task to Fili." He found he had gone tense and angry, turning to stare at the dwarf behind the door and hissing as loud as he dared. He did not think about appropriate manners, or about how angry the dwarf-king would be once he realized the hobbit was upbraiding him. "He's not old enough. There is a  _dragon_  still sleeping atop the wealth of Erebor. Your people are scattered and the only dwarf that can reunite them is  _you_. You are irreplaceable Thorin Oakenshield, so just-just stop being-being flippant. You  _can't_  die."

Whatever retort the dwarf had prepared was cut short when they both heard the approaching elves. Blibo was gone without a backwards glance.

* * *

Erebor. The secret door. Thorin grabbed Bilbo's elbow as the stone moved and the door opened on their lost homeland. His fingers tightened. The hobbit stared at the dwarf's hand, baffled and fixated. His eyes tracked up and his eyebrows rose until they felt fit to fall off his face.

Thorin nodded, "Thank you, Mr Baggins."

The brief hint of softness around his eyes swept Bilbo's feet from beneath him as surely as any blow. It dropped him into a confrontation with his suppressed emotion, and stole his breath with the sudden knowledge.

When he stole the Arkenstone and hid it in his jacket, that softness was the memory that prompted him.

* * *

Dragon slain and Erebor reclaimed, Bilbo found himself watching Thorin more than ever. He prowled through the treasure horde, sharp-tongued and dangerous. As the obsession grew, the hobbit kept putting himself in the king's path, prodding and provoking until the dwarf would smile and soften, even if it was only for a few seconds. The question of the Arkenstone hidden in his bedroll plagued both of them. Had he believed it would benefit anyone, he would have climbed to the highest point and pitched it into the mines, or dumped it into one of the colossal melting pots, but Thorin's stories made it seem nearly indestructible.

If it was, if it did not vanish entirely, and his actions were discovered… Bilbo did not like to follow that line of thought.

The arrival of the others did little to help.

Thorin's mistrust grew. The dragon-sickness increasingly overwhelmed the generous and rational mind of the king. Bilbo stayed close by and interrupted with nonsense whenever he saw a burst of temper flaring. He tried to think that Thorin's smiles for him were a matter of his lack of obeisance, his lack of proper treatment toward the King Under the Mountain. It did Bilbo's fragile, barely masked state no favors to think he was being subjected to special treatment due to a fondness from the dwarf.

He thought when Thorin found him with the acorn from Beorn's garden that the king had lost himself entirely. The violence he kept restrained had nearly gotten loose. Then a smile like a new dawn rising had brightened the room, and Bilbo had smiled back, all the troubles forgotten for a moment. The glow had been almost unbearable for Bilbo. He wanted to grab the dwarf and beg him to listen to reason. He wanted to shout until he saw how sick he was getting. He wanted to, but the joy in the King's face froze his tongue. By the time he had reclaimed his wits, a shadow had clouded the dawn he had seen, and he feared the reaction that this jealous and angry version of Thorin would have to Bilbo's blunt words.

The sickness deepened, and Bilbo thought in a bleak moment that Thorin would never be himself again. No tears fell. Terror kept them at bay. Thorin was losing himself.

The mithril shirt proved all was not lost. On the tail of a speech of darkness and possessiveness that chilled his very bones, Bilbo was gifted an extraordinary piece of armor. He made a joke, and the sunlight returned to Thorin's eyes. The pair stood there, smiling as the dwarves crossed between, and it took all of Bilbo's strength to stay calm as he saw it fade again. It corrupted and died as he watched, turning from generosity and trust to a wary scowl directed at his kin.

* * *

Bilbo stood on the rampart, Arkenstone wrapped in cloth, and contemplated once more the great pits of the mines. It would be easier to achieve, surely. It would be safer for him. Thorin would think it had been accidentally lost when they inevitably found it in the future. Maybe by then the taint of the dragon would have faded, and the king would be strong enough, confident enough to resist it. Bilbo agonized over the possibility. If it had only been a question of Thorin, of the stone, the decision would have been simple, and he would have been rid of it days ago.

Too much else was at stake.

A battle the company could not win was on the horizon. A winter they could not survive alone sat beyond the next hill. Without the elves and men to support them, it would all crumble in weeks.

Standing in the moonlight, Bilbo recalled the last true smile he had coaxed from Thorin. He had caught him on his way to the horde, determined and drake-like, spitting out a biting retort when Bilbo asked him to wait. They had talked about the ridiculous and extravagant tent the Elf-king had brought along from Mirkwood. Somewhere, the hobbit found the words to break the shell of obsession for another moment, and basked in the smile he had received.

Desperation made him brave and he caught the king's fur lined coat. He wanted to prolong the moment. He wanted to banish the madness permanently from Thorin's normally bright clear eyes. If he had truly thought it could have undone the damage the Arkenstone had wrought upon his dwarf, he would have confessed every thought he had. He would have flayed himself open and left his heart as a gift for the heir to Durin's line whether it was taken or not. Even if it had been spurned, spat upon; even if the little ember of hope he clung to was extinguished before his eyes, he would have done it gladly if it meant a chance to save him.

The hobbit was honest with himself.

It would not have helped a pinch.

So that night he betrayed the company, his friends, and Thorin Oakenshield.

When he returned, his chest ached and his stomach knotted and writhed. He got no sleep. He wanted to retch and weep or run and hide. He wanted to go back to the camp and retrieve the gem, present it to Thorin and stay by his side, coaxing out smiles when he could, holding the dragon sickness at bay as long as he was able.

But the die was cast. He stayed where he was and tried to brace himself for the dawn.

He did not need to be a seer to know what the next day would bring.

* * *

Knowing did not dull the keening pain in his heart as Thorin's eyes flushed with madness and found his. His voice had barely shaken when he admitted his guilt. The torrent of righteous violence washed over him. Bilbo accepted it, defended his actions with pre-planned words, and tried not to memorize the hatred unleashed on him.

He did though. That image of this twisted Thorin burned into his mind. He would always be able to see him, inches away, holding him over the ledge, ready to kill him for his betrayal. The misery and regret attached to the vision would never fade either.

The mutterings and reassurances of the dwarves as he was shepherded to the rope did nothing to ease the pain or dampen the certainty that he would not see his dwarf-king again.

* * *

The revelation of the approaching army from Gundabad and the implication it carried for the safety of his dwarf lanced through him.

"I am not asking you to allow it, Gandalf." He declared to the wizard who watched him for a moment thinking him mad. Nothing would stop him though.

He ran and tried not to imagine what would happen if he was not fast enough. His mind provided ample imagery of Thorin lying crumpled in a pool of red. Images of him impaled on a twisted black spear sped his steps. The knowledge that eternally happy Fili and Kili would be killed just as certainly kept him moving when he fell into the filth of the battlefield, tripped by an elf corpse. They were the ones who had whispered loudest to him as he fled Erebor and Thorin's wrath that all would be well. Images of Azog beheading his beloved king drove him up Raven Hill faster than he had known he could move.

He found him safe. He found Thorin with a smile on his face, sanity in his eyes and Bilbo's name spilling happily over his lips.

Bilbo could have died then, and counted himself blessed to have seen the king returned to himself. He passed on Gandalf's message. They were about to move, to retrieve the princes. For just a moment Bilbo's hand caught on Thorin's arm bracer, holding him in place long enough to make eye contact. He would have given some speech, tried for eloquence, but there was no time. Instead he poured everything into the look he gave the king, hoping a fragment of it would be understood. The two had always done unusually well with non-verbal communication. Dwarvish eyes narrowed, then blew wide, his mouth parted to speak. Bilbo spoke first. "Go. Get back to Erebor.  _You can't die_."

It sounded as ridiculous as when he had said so in Thranduil's prison. It sounded pleading and pathetic, and Bilbo did not care anymore. Thorin inhaled, restraining something enormous and nodded.

Bilbo was sure he could find Fili and Kili in an empty tower. He would get them to safety.

Instead they heard Azog's roar and saw Fili on the tower's ledge. They ran. Without thinking, Bilbo stepped forward and shouted. It should not have had any impact. He was a lone halfling in a vast battle. Yet, somehow, Azog saw, and knew. He heard shouts of black speech from the tower and answering calls from behind him. The halfling that had stopped the destruction of Durin's heir once before, that had taunted and thwarted him, caught the pale orc's gaze and became the object of attention.

Thorin had run forward. Bilbo had frozen under the eye of the orc.

The attack split them farther apart. He tried to reach Thorin, but he was no swordsman, no true fighter. He barely avoided blows from the orcs surrounding him. He shouted and brandished Sting and did little more than stall the inevitable. In the grey waste atop the hill, he thought he saw two flashes of color moving behind the forms of the orcs. His eyes followed the path they were on, and looked back to the dwarf heir.

Bilbo saw Fili shoved from the tower platform, alive or dead, he did not know. But there was a crack across his head, and his world went dark before the prince's body hit the ground.

* * *

This time he was too late.

His eyes opened reluctantly. He could hear Thorin fighting. He heard a cry of pain and a tremendous crash. Half on his knees, half blinded with pain, half lost in panic, Bilbo turned in time to see Azog press the wickedly curved blade into Thorin's chest.

A mangled sound of protest ripped from his throat in answer to the scream of pain that tore from Thorin's. It was unlike anything he had heard before. Anguish and anger and imminent death wrapped around each other to create a tone that gutted the hobbit. The pale orc wrenched the blade back out to deliver another blow, but stopped at the sound of a fell horn blowing. Bilbo watched the beast survey the motionless form of Thorin Oakenshield, then saw him stride away, joining the black forces that were retreating under the arrival of the eagles.

The screaming and bellowing of the battlefield went silent in Bilbo's mind, and the silence devoured every thought and injury and emotion in his heart leaving behind only the vision of Azog dead by his hand.

Fili had fallen. Kili had been with him, he always was. Bilbo had watched as Thorin died.

He could not go back. He could not undo. He could only avenge.

Dead inside, he began his hunt.

* * *

Ready as he had been for his end, Bilbo was bewildered when his eyes fluttered open to see the blue-green of the stone of the Kingdom of Erebor above him. He felt hollow, weaker than a breath of wind, and no heavier.

"How?" He asked the ceiling, his breath scarcely loud enough for he himself to hear.

There was a quick shocked sound and a flurry of movement near him. A face appeared above his, dark hair and bright eyes that seemed familiar, but it vanished again before his blurred vision allowed him a chance to identify it. A door opened sharply and orders were shouted to someone in the hall. Bilbo listened to feet beating a fast retreat against the stone and distant echoes of shouts and cheers.

He was left alone, listening to the activity in the hall and wondering how he had come to be here once more. He did not know how long he was alone, but he was drifting back to sleep before he felt a brush against his wrist. A warm hand placed something in his palm and closed his fingers over it. The hand lingered long enough to squeeze his fist once, then retreated.

With effort Bilbo raised his arm and examined the object: the acorn that he had clutched in the snow, awaiting his end.

Bilbo smiled, recalling his intent to plant it at Bag End as a remembrance of his journey, recalling his conversation with Thorin, recalling the smile that had lit the room. When his eyes grew wet, fixed on the token, he dashed away tears before they fell, wiggling his nose and nodding.

Clutching at the acorn, he fought against the memory of Thorin's wrath. He knew he had failed the dwarven king in the end. The vengeance he exacted had been for him as much as for Durin's line. He had not been the warrior Thorin needed. He was a simple hobbit, lost amongst heroes and legends.

He wanted to go home be rid of this place and its grating memories.

Ignoring his body's protests as he had during his long hunt, Bilbo pushed himself upright and moved to stand. He raised his hand to to head, waiting for his vision to clear, and ran puzzled fingers over his hair. Grown long during the quest, someone had braided it away from his face. Four braids were clasped with small silver beads. The vision of one of the dwarves-and it could be no one else-braiding his hair raised a new smile.

His faltering effort to stand and subsequent collapse back onto the bed drew a sound of alarm from his watcher. "I'm fine. Er, I will be." Bilbo said, unconcerned with the lie. He had hardly been well fed when the battle began, and the months of running and foraging for food from snow blanketed bushes had done nothing to help. Not even his own mother could have recognized him. The familiar paunch of his stomach, already too small by hobbit standards, was gone entirely. His watcher stayed quiet behind him as Bilbo planted his feet and stood through force of will.

He was sick, tired, scarcely half recovered. He was lost and confused, with no notion how he had been brought back to Erebor when his last memory was of snow falling on his cheeks as his lifeblood slipped away. He wanted desperately to curl into himself and weep for the dwarves he had lost and the suffering he had witnessed.

He would not allow it.

He wanted to go home. As soon as he could. Instantly.

If Thorin's enraged dismissal still held, he would beg a pack and a pony from the men of Esgaroth, and he would be on his way. He would carry back his acorn and watch it grow into a tree in memorial for his lost dwarves and their great quest. He needed to find warmer clothing if he was going to take a journey, but his body could not manage. When he tried to walk, his legs half collapsed, but he did not fall.

Strong hands had locked onto his shoulders and held him upright. He saw the fingers on his shirt and muttered, "My thanks, Master dwarf. It seems I am not so strong as I once was." He turned as he spoke, half guided by the dwarf, expecting to see one of Dain's people. Surely none of the company would insult Thorin's memory by consorting with the traitorous hobbit.

The broad expanse of the dwarf's chest was decked in worked leather and embroidered wool. It was draped in a warm fur.

"Yes you are, Bilbo." Rich and softly sad, the baritone voice swept over him, much wished for and beyond hope. Staring suddenly up at the sharp lines of his face, Bilbo grappled with bewilderment and joy. There was a new scar on his cheek, pink skin interrupting the line of his beard. He wore less embellishment than during the days just after Smaug. He stood tall, un-maimed. Whole. Alive. How was inconsequential. He was alive. His hair was caught in tidy braids. His beard was a bit longer. And his eyes...

When Bilbo finally found the courage to look at Thorin's eyes, he forgot how to breathe. There was no trace of obsession there. No dragon-sickness. No malevolence. Just the clarion intensity of purpose he had met in his house in Hobbiton, softened by something he did not dare to name. There was an ember's glow housed there now that Bilbo cherished all the way to the depths of his heart.

Had he thought about it, he would have been mortified to have gazed so raptly, so unabashedly at his friend the king, but he was too busy drowning in the softness of the eyes that held his. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, Bilbo's mind accepted Thorin's survival and he thought he would have collapsed again but for the strength imparted by the hands on his arms. A smile and sound of uncomprehending delight bloomed together in Bilbo.

Even as the smile was mirrored in the King, guilt crashed down. Thorin had been alive on the ice, and in his blind rage, he had abandoned him.

"You thought me dead." Thorin said tightening his grip, "You thought me dead and you determined to find vengeance for me and my kin. You pursued a foe far beyond your strength and skill, and you succeeded where my line has failed. There is no cause for the guilt I see you harbor. I was injured and fading, I did not think to survive. I would not have had words to give you had you come to me. But I watched you follow Azog before the darkness swallowed me, and," The king brought his forehead down, resting it against Bilbo's, noses touching, and with effort, continued to speak. "when I awoke, I believed you dead, killed trying to complete a task that I could not. I did not like to think of you...gone.

"When they heard my tale, the wizards insisted you were not. Had I been fit to ride I would have travelled with them, I swear. I would have come to your aid as you have done for me and mine so often since we met in the Shire. But you were far afield, and they could not be delayed by an invalid. Had you been lost while I laid abed...… Master Baggins, you are owed a great boon for what you have done. You kept me from death and madness and dishonor, and whatever you crave, be it in my power, I will grant it to you."

Bilbo shook his head, overwhelmed. Thorin tried from a different angle, "If not for what you have done for me, than in honor of your actions towards my nephews." A low keen peeled out of him as he sunk forward to rest against the king's chest. He had not thought of them since seeing Thorin. His great light returning to his life had distracted him from the fate of the others. Fili tumbled in his memory. Kili was trapped. Rapidly, his mind saw images of each of the company in death's embrace. His fear translated, because soon Thorin spoke fervently, moving to embrace the hobbit firmly to his chest. "No. No, Bilbo. They live. All of them. Fili will bear a limp, but he will live. There are new scars and stories, but they all live."

His fingers reached up and clung to fur, hardly able to withstand the release of such potent fears and anxieties, images he had been haunted by day and night through his long hunt.

Thorin tried to return him to the comfort of the bed, but Bilbo dug in his feet and would not shift.

At last, he managed to force his voice back into action, and whispered, "Thank you, for living, for doing as I asked."

"When you appeared on Raven Hill, I discovered that -" Thorin cut off as the rest of the company bounded into the chamber. Bilbo was worried that if they embraced him any harder, he would be broken clean in half, but was so grateful to see them all once more that he did not speak of it.

* * *

It was a month gone before he and Thorin found themselves alone once more. Bilbo was recuperating the way he knew best, with all the good food and good company he could fit into a day. He was still too thin to be counted respectable by his kin, but he no longer felt about to shatter. Occasionally overwhelmed by his last year, he would slip away to a quiet corner of the city, and try to piece together the tales his companions told. They talked about Thorin mostly. He heard of his recovery, of the way had had grown withdrawn and cold when a month passed without word of the halfling's whereabouts. They told Bilbo about Dwalin and Balin strong-arming the king into submission when threatened to march north. They told him about the aftermath of the battle. They told him about the efforts to restore Erebor and Esgaroth and Dale. They told him about the Elf-maiden saving the princes and the dwarves vowing to never let it be forgotten. They told him about Beorn and Radagast and the eagles. They told him about Bard taking over leadership of the Lake Men. They told him about Thorin having the Arkenstone entombed in a vault deep below the city, a memorial for his grandfather, Thror, never to be touched.

He listened to them all and asked for more.

Of his own story he spoke little. When pressed, all he would say of it was, "It was cold and long. But in the end I achieved my goal." When they asked for details he would outlast them in stubbornness. He did not know if Thorin and the wizard had told the others what he had done, but thought not. It was appreciated, had they known they would have hounded him without pause.

He saw Thorin regularly, though they rarely spoke. He was usually on the edge of the group, but leaned closer whenever someone spoke of Bilbo's private adventure. Eventually the king would ask him himself, and he did now know how he would keep quiet certain truths.

Whatever Thorin had discovered on the hill had never been spoken of again. Bilbo had waited, giving the dwarf opportunities to speak, to separate him from a group, but eventually forced his heart to accept that what feelings he harbored for his dwarven beloved were doomed to remain unspoken, unrequited.

But Thorin lived, so Bilbo smiled in the face of heartbreak. It could so easily have ended another way, Durin's line could so easily have disintegrated on the battlefield, that the hobbit stayed grateful and placated.

When the storms faded he would go West, back to the Shire and Bag End, back to his quiet life and whatever respectability he could muster amongst his sedate relatives. The acorn in his pocket reassured him. He had spent long enough waiting for Thorin to acknowledge what Bilbo had seen grow between them on the journey. No good would come of prolonging his suffering or his presence on the king.

He looked out a high window, one of the few that had been cleared so far, and glowed at the view. Fat heavy snow fell, twisting in the air, promising a blizzard to follow. He would not be leaving soon.

His decision was made, but he did not wish it nearer.

The voice behind him, welcome, resonant and quizzical broke him from his reverie. He quickly subsumed his real emotions in easy friendship and greeted the King. "I believe Oin asked that you avoid cold drafts, solitary places and long climbs. Was it your intent to break all of his edicts in one afternoon?" Thorin scolded.

"My apologies, oh King Under the Mountain," he sketched a bow as a jest, knowing that the return to formalities was still surreal for the dwarf that had been beggared for decades, "I'll not tempt the fury of our company's healer again." There were few people who were permitted to use such a tone with the King, and Bilbo cherished the right. Thorin smiled. It was one of the daylight smiles he had fought so hard to reclaim while battling the dragon-sickness, and they were just as precious to him now. In a flash, his resolve to depart on the heels of winter evaporated. It had been folly to think he could ever walk away while Thorin lived. Until he was banished or called to the void, he would stay, and he would wait for his beloved to see even a fraction of what Bilbo beheld each time their eyes met.

"I have heard you are asking about the winter. How long it will last, and when the passes over the mountains will clear."

"Idle curiosity." Bilbo said firmly.

"It seemed to Bofur that you were planning a journey."

"I'm not."

Thorin was beside him at the window now. He held the king's eyes as long as he could, revelling in it without shame. For all that the dwarf had never spoken a word of encouragement, Bilbo was certain that none of the others shared moments like this.

"I had thought you would be eager to return to the Shire."

"I had thought so too."

A hand, surprisingly hesitant, touched the bead at the end of one of Bilbo's short braids. The hobbit felt he was melting into the floor at the tenderness he saw. "Your hair has been rebraided."

"Yes, they'd become quite a mess."

A hint of displeasure and jealousy tainted Thorin's terse question. "Who?"

Understanding neither the tone nor the implication, Bilbo shrugged, ignoring the feathery battering in his chest that began when he speculated. "I did it myself. They're simple, like myself, and I do know how to plait a braid, Master Oakenshield, thank you." The jealousy vanished, and the battering amplified. He wanted to push, to provoke the dwarf into speaking, to ask about what had been discovered on the hill, but held quiet while Thorin nodded brusquely.

The king's hand fell away, and Bilbo leaned in, wanting to keep the contact a moment longer. Seeing the moment come unravelled, Bilbo gathered his resolve and his courage. Emboldened by what he hoped he had just read correctly, he took a risk. " _You_  braided them before, didn't you?"

The dwarf froze, eyes fixed on the windowsill.

He swallowed, not expecting an answer, and forged onwards, "I think that you braided them while I slept, and I don't know what to make of that. I don't know what to make of you. We have talked many times about many things, but I don't think we have have ever completed a conversation so I just don't know what is inside your...head. But I plan to find out.

"So you listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield. If you want me to leave, to go back to the Shire, you'll have to throw me from rampart and properly banish me this time. You'll have to post guards. You'll have to truss me in a sack and deliver me to Bag End in the back of a cart. If you don't want me here then you're going to have to force me to go.

"If-if-if you do want me here, if you do anything less than all that, then here is where I'll stay. When you run off on another madcap adventure I'll be beside you, and if you never speak to me after today I will still be there, because I'll not see you face death alone again. I know I'm just a burglar, just a hobbit, a halfling, I'm not a warrior or descended from an ancient line, but I am not going to leave, not unless you force me to. I laid in the snow and I was ready to die because you already had and the journey home no longer mattered. I was lost and broken. And I don't know what's in your head, and I don't know what's in your - in your heart, but I know what's in  _mine_ , and I think you braided my hair while I slept and I think these are  _your_  beads, and I don't understand what that means, I don't understand any of this, but I plan to stay here until I do."

Bilbo nodded uncomfortably and locked his eyes on the snow outside. He was abruptly aware of the rambling speech he had delivered and the stammering sound Thorin was making. Huge flakes of snow continued to drift outside, swirling almost inside and the hobbit was brought for a moment back to the clearing in the mountain. It settled his nerves. Knowing he had overcome his fears for this dwarf before buoyed his strength now and let him turn around.

Thorin's gaze was on the floor, but he raised it when Bilbo turned.

They caught there again, as they had done so many times since the quest began, and Bilbo's blood turned icy to think that moments like this would be the closest he would come to claiming the dwarf's heart as his own. But somewhere in his ramblings he had found a phrase that had broken through his dwarf's recalcitrance and fear.

Confident at long last, Thorin ducked his head and closed the distance, capturing the hobbit's parted mouth with his own and proving his heart mirrored Bilbo's.

One hand around his back was enough to lift him neatly off the ground and hold him there. It would not have mattered if it had been dropped, Bilbo had his hands fisted into the rich fur and held himself suspended, toes brushing the the dwarf's boots. The wall behind him was startling but far from unwelcome when he was pressed against it. The fluttering that had turned to a battering was now a cacophony in his heart. He had no experience to query on whether the sensation was appropriate, but flushed with the certainty that Thorin was as lost in it as he was.

If the smiles he had cherished and clung to before had been likened to the brightness of the dawn, then the smile he saw when they broke apart was as bright Gandalf's staff and more powerful. He was dizzy and breathless, lost in the blue eyes that pinned him in place and no longer whispered hints of an ember between them.

They were building a roaring blaze between them now, all caught between their eyes and unspoken. They could find the words for it later. Thorin's other hand returned to the braids hanging by his hobbit's face and Bilbo knew he had guessed right. What it implied was still unknown and now unimportant. He passed a thumb over the fresh scar on the king's cheek, pressing a soft kiss to it. Thier faces fell together again, softer now, gentler, not an act of claiming but of catharsis from long months of absence, pain, anxiety and sorrow.

A portion of the blaze settled into Bilbo's chest and for the first time since returning to Erebor, he did not feel hollow.

"You are still owed a boon for your deeds, my burglar, what would you claim?" Thorin said, brushing their noses together. His old title was transformed into something tender and personal in that moment. Feeling brave with his legs half wrapped around Thorin's waist, Bilbo moved deliberately; he pointed a finger and slowly moved. He pressed it over his love's heart and held it there. The dwarf's eyes closed for a moment as his grin widened and he nodded his head.

Bilbo just laughed, arms wrapped around his beloved. He was content and whole, his heart was revealed and cherished, and he knew he had found his prize.

* * *

Months. Thats how long it took for Bilbo to realize what he felt for the brash and wounded dwarven king. Months more for him to find the courage to admit it to himself. And when he saw his beloved taken from him, he had spent months in the single minded endeavour to avenge him.

Perhaps it was a necessity between them that such a realization unfold so delicately. Any faster and they could have crushed it still born. But having found such a rare treasure hiding between them, neither could ever resent its slow formation. The blaze they had ignited colored their entire world, leaving little traces of joy in even the most sorrowful moments and keeping them afloat amidst the dark years ahead of them.

But they were alive. And the rest of it they could withstand together.

* * *

 


	2. Durin's Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the Thorin companion to the One-shot this is attached to.  
> After seeing Bilbo vanish to hunt his family's enemy, Thorin deals with the guilt of leaving his hobbit alone in the face of death once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many many thanks to Paranoid_Fridge and Mephestopheles for helping me keep this coherent. And for dealing with my rambling.

Scars.

Bilbo Baggins was covered in scars. It did not seem right. This gentle hobbit from the sweet green pastures of the Shire should not have borne scars from battle and war.

It was not right.

Yet, his arms and legs were mapped with a maze of pink lines that would have seemed fitting as dents or scratches on armor. They would have been damage to be proud of then, a sign of all the fights he had fought and won. They could have been displayed and relived in tales. They could have been a sign of how far he had come from his tidy smial under the hill.

But they were on flesh instead.

Even without Óin's softly spoken pronouncement, Thorin knew that few, if any, of the wounds had been treated. They had the rough look of infection still lingering about them. Bilbo had been alone.

There was an open wound on his side, barely held together by bandages and small stitches that could still easily kill the fragile hobbit, but it was the scars that Thorin continued to observe. They were minor damage, truly. None had ever been life-threatening, unless a particularly virulent infection had occurred. Yet they ate at his conscience. The still weeping wound was a reference to a single fight. That Bilbo lived at all meant that he had been found just after it happened. Bilbo had not been alone while the pain of that injury washed him into the dark.

The others though.

Some were fully knit, some still tenderly pink, a few still scabbed. Bilbo had been alone for those. He had been alone for a long time. He had been injured and lost in the wilderness with no one to watch over him or help him heal.

His little hobbit that he had so rudely dismissed upon introduction had become so much more than any of them had thought, and now the proof of that worth and strength was writ permanently upon flesh. Guilt, his unwelcome but well deserved companion for the past few months bubbled again. There had only been so many ways to berate himself when Bilbo's fate was dangling unknown. The uncertainty of it allowed him to cling tenaciously to the thought that he and the wizards were wrong in their assumption. After all, it made no sense for a lone halfling to challenge the Pale Orc.

Nonsense or not, it had happened.

Thorin's remembrance of that fight was clouded by the haze of healing herbs and fever that he had fought through in the weeks after. In fact, his memory was now built largely from what the company had repeated to him when he asked. His own words were filtered through others' minds and rebuilt as fuzzy memory.

Some glimpses were still clear.

Azog's glee above him as Thorin lost the struggle to maintain the block and the blade slid into his chest. Óin later assured him that the injury, had it been a finger's width away in any direction or a shred larger, or had Tauriel not already been running to him, begged by Kili, he would have died. It was not a vision he would forget in this life.

He remembered the eagles overhead, wings spread and piercing cries heralding the victory they would soon achieve.

But mostly he recalled seeing Bilbo in the blue glow of his blade, a face bereft of his accustomed wit and charm, stalking after Azog. Even if he pretended sometimes that his burglar had escaped home, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the glass-eyed focus that had set Bilbo running. He knew the hobbit's intent. He had tried to speak, to call out, and failed.

Believing himself scant breaths from death, he had wanted nothing more than to speak to his hobbit once more, to beg forgiveness and offer his thanks for all that had passed between them. Instead he had seen the small solitary thing leaving, not even hesitating as he passed near the king.

Now here Bilbo lay, their roles reversed. After months separated, the sight of Bilbo, riddled with old injuries and floating just above death, truly did not make sense to him.

* * *

Despite what his nephews insisted in bothersome whispers, Thorin had not been more than appropriately grateful for Bilbo's foolhardy rescue on the slope of the Misty Mountains. If it seemed so it was a result of the contrast in his treatment of the smallest company member. He had, of course, appreciated that Bilbo's interference allowed him to keep his head attached, but it had  _not_  been more. If the hobbit was part of the company then such behavior was part and parcel of the contract. Even if he had been ill suited to carry it out. Even if it had been almost certain death he had faced

If the burglar's eyes had lit up in relief as Thorin awoke and rose, it was no shock. The dwarf was aware he had been nearly to the void when the wizard laid hands upon him and brought him back.

When the same joy and pride in those eyes had wilted under Thorin's admittedly ill-timed attempt at a dramatic apology, it should not have etched itself behind the King's eyes.

And yet.

 

* * *

 

Beorn's strange house unsettled the company. The shapeshifter carried a conflicting aura of safety and violence, which the dwarves could feel, and which worried at them all while they recuperated for the short days they stayed.

Bilbo though, seemed utterly content. It was irritating. The hobbit was as pleased with the gardens and pastures as Thorin had ever seen him. The glow inside him was so bright that as the others spent time with him they walked away cheered by it. It seemed that the bucolic peace of the house soothed Bilbo's soul like the smooth stone that Thorin yearned for each day.

Before they left it appeared that Bilbo had spoken to each of the others, dragging them out to look at flowers and fields and bees. His infectiously glittering smile had brightened them each in turn, and had Thorin been asked, he could not have denied that the Hobbit had done as much to recuperate the company as the fresh bread and undisturbed sleep.

Thorin did not examine why he declined all of the burglar's attempts to treat him similarly.

 

* * *

  

He had walked the Greenwood as a dwarfling, merrily chasing after birds and beasts with his siblings beside him. As soon as he stepped under the cover of the trees, he knew that its name had been changed with good reason. Mirkwood was as changed as it could be. It was a crypt-like horror, haunted by whispers and danger.

The path was elusive, constantly trying to lead them astray; surely some witchcraft of the elves to confound their enemies.

They slogged on, food dwindling. His Company grew tense, fractious.

By the time they lost the path entirely it mattered little. Even if the path had been directly beneath their boots they were too overwhelmed with fear and hate to follow it. Part of him was glad to hear Ori's shout and see the spiders descending on them. An external opponent rallied them.

For a moment they were cheered, expecting a victory over the foul creatures. Too hopeful. Spider poison felled them easily.

Strength failing him, silk wrapping him layer by layer into his funeral shroud, Thorin realized too late that Bilbo was left alone, high in the tree the spiders had appeared from. His panic was short lived as the poison finished its job and he fell from the world.

Rescue was a bewildering thing.

Bilbo moved with a surety that he had never shown before, shouting taunts and hurling rocks. Thorin watched the hobbit, astounded at the transformation. From a grocer and a bother, he had become their protector, guarding them against the fell things with his short blade as if he had always wielded it. The flailing panic at Azog had been successful, but was no more than controlled than a babe learning to walk.

This was new.

Thorin watched Bilbo when he should have watched the trees, unable to stop. A small bit of Hobbit propriety had collapsed, and revealed the steel within him. Their burglar could hardly be blamed when the woodelves captured them.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil's cells were not the torment that most races set aside for prisoners.

That irritated Thorin all the more. It denied him an avenue to hate the Elf-King. He was kept separated from the others, some place deeper and more hollowly cold. He had been with the company initially, but after cursing and threatening Thranduil extensively in Khuzdul, he had been taken elsewhere. Then came several long days interrupted only by the guards delivering food at precise intervals. The displaced Dwarven-King grew lethargic, regretting quickly his choice to let loose his temper.

He must have appeared far worse than he was as he leaned against the wall beside the door, limp and wrestling with despair at reclaiming the mountain. He must have, because Bilbo slipped his hand through the bars and shakily brushed Thorin's wrist with his fingertips, whispering his name in obvious fear. That he had clung to that small hand was something he tried not to think about in his long hours alone.

After his initial confidence that Bilbo would free them, the cool dark and silence ate at his conviction.

But he had appeared once more. He always appeared when he was needed most.

Bilbo Baggins, against all odds, had once more arrived to save them.

The tears did not fall until after his burglar had slipped away to continue seeking their escape. The solitude between visits was more bearable for the interruption by a gleaming smile and quick witted banter on their prospects.

Bilbo always woke him with a gentle touch in the weeks they were trapped. Thorin always clung to his hand for a moment. As the time stretched, he knew that he clung longer with each appearance, which were similarly growing more frequent: sometimes twice or thrice a day.

Then there was the midnight visit when, without thinking, his thumb brushed along the hobbit's wrist, and, feeling the sharp contours of bones, he realized how thin it was. "If you collapse of hunger you'll be of no use to us. Take this." He pressed a bit of fruit into the burglar's hand and continued, "If you collapse we'll have to make a deal with that tree-shagger or die."

Bilbo smirked, "You'd make a deal with him? You? Thorin Oakenshield?"

"No." They both just smiled for a moment, and Thorin broke first, "So ask the others as well, unless you want us to die here."

In Laketown Thorin learned Bilbo had never mentioned it to them.

 

* * *

 

Kept afloat as he had been in the dungeons by Bilbo's presence and quiet conversations, Thorin could not help but nod at the irony of their escape plan. Orcs and rapids did their best to end the quest, but the company persisted as the stubbornness of dwarves often did.

They crawled ashore, sopping wet, cold and angry. There had been a number of insults tossed at their burglar during the river trip. Thorin was inclined to agree with them, half drowned as he was. Belatedly, he realized that Bilbo had answered none of the insults, and panicked, shouting for him.

Long ago, even before the trolls, while crossing a small stream, Bilbo had admitted that his kind did not swim, and were prone to drown in even slow shallow water.

His concern as he checked for injuries on the company's smallest member silenced the rest. Perhaps the others had recalled the same confession. Thorin, consoled that there was no visible injury, and that, while he was freezing and deeply unhappy, Bilbo was well, shouted all the insults he had thought on the river. He raged until it seemed like blisters would raise on his tongue from the heat of it.

It was a better choice than to examine why he had been so worried.

The hobbit had not simply freed them from the elves, but had, again, willingly placed himself in death's path to do it. By the time they were sailing for the town, Bilbo had returned to his self, wit and merriment taunting the others. But they did not speak.

Bilbo fell sick in Laketown.

The company discouraged him from visiting, memories of his tirade echoing in their ears as loudly as they echoed in the king's.

 

* * *

  

Balin's reproach of who it was that had just been sent into the mountain shook Thorin. He had tried to avoid speaking to the halfling while they travelled the last stretch to the mountain. He had tried to return to the safe distance he had maintained at Beorn's home. Bilbo, unaware of the dwarf's goals, had easily thwarted them.

His resolve had crumbled when the sun had set, and hope had gone with it. Abandoning the key, he gave the map to Bilbo, hand lingering as he refused the urge to look for the comfort he had known in his cell. That his hobbit managed to find their way in nearly destroyed him; he knew what must come after. This was why he had resisted any contrary impulse to draw their burglar closer than the small touches he allowed himself. At the end of the quest, he had known he would have to send Bilbo down to Smaug.

Being unseen for sixty years had not convinced Thorin that the Wyrm was dead. Dwarves were rarely so lucky. He was sending Bilbo into death.

Alone.

Again.

So he hid behind thick mental walls, and did his best not to hear Balin say that name.

Then the mountain shook, and he knew.

The difference in his mind when he abruptly rushed down the passage to help was dizzying. He had not acknowledged it, not to himself and certainly not aloud, but his actions told another story. He pulled away from the rest, racing to the hobbit's aid, unthinking of what was there except him.

After so long away from the splendid riches of the mountain, he had forgotten the draw it had over his mind. After so many years of dreaming of the great treasure hoard of his ancestors and all that he could do to right past wrongs once it was his, he barely noticed as its seduction slipped beneath his vow never to become Thror.

Once he had seen that Bilbo was alive, the need, the soul deep need, to possess that wealth, and the Arkenstone first and foremost, overwhelmed him. He could have killed the halfling there on the platform, hesitating, failing to convince Thorin of his innocence. He might have, had Smaug not shifted the hoard's hold over his mind.

They were  _almost_  enough. But no. Smaug survived, taunting and enraged, and flown towards the Lake.

Even before the Wyrm fell, Thorin was withdrawing, pulled inexorably back to the wealth of the mountain. His people's legacy. His hoard. All of it his own. It called and sang to him, whispering of the greatness he deserved and the deeds he could achieve with it at his fingertips. It seeped into every corner of his mind. He reveled in the glow that was already filling him and edged away from the others to return to the mountain.

 

* * *

  

Thorin was still sitting, watching Bilbo on the bed when he heard Erebor awaken. An icy winter dawn would be breaking on the walls of the mountain any moment, not that it would reach the room where the hobbit was laid. It had been only a few hours since the Wizards had appeared. They had come in the night, Radagast requesting the King's presence in spite of the hour. Even before the guard had finished speaking Thorin had known. There was little other reason to wake him so late in the night. Bundled into a blanket and hidden beneath Gandalf's robes they had brought Bilbo back to Erebor, half healed and unconscious.

A set of rooms in the royal hall was claimed for him, and if either wizard had found it odd that they had been left unoccupied but maintained, neither commented.

The guards were ordered to secrecy until it was known if Bilbo would live, and were sent running for Óin, still the only healer in residence at Erebor who Thorin trusted. He knew the mountain kept secrets no better than a sieve kept water, but he could stall the inevitable storm until they knew more, and until the rest of the company had been informed.

Thorin smoothed his hair and his beard, contemplated retrieving the crown from his chambers, and waited. Orders had been left for the rest of the company to be awoken at dawn and summoned to his presence. Most would understand instantly. The rest would know as soon as they saw where they were being led.

His ever-bold nephews had started calling these rooms Bilbo's the moment they were cleaned. They had continued to, even after the mountain had given up hope of the hobbit returning, but their voices broke slightly sometimes.

Gandalf had told him briefly what they had found, what they had learned while following the hobbit. Had he not been nearly a month ahead of his pursuers by the time they found the trail, they would have found him far sooner. As it was, they had discovered him in the Grey Mountains, bleeding, near death, insensible, and lying beside the cold corpse of the Pale Orc. Bilbo had nearly decapitated him. If the hobbit's grip on life had not been so tenuous, Thorin would have regretted that they had not returned with Azog's head.

Waiting with him through the night, Thorin had decided not to share that yet. Gandalf had done all he could, but the hobbit still slept. If he was lost, then the hunting of Azog would be told as he was returned to the earth; if he survived, he might not want it known. Hobbits were strange creatures like that, averse to accolades.

That was one of the few certainties he had.

He lit another lantern just before the first of the Company arrived.

His nephews were cautious, staring intently until Bilbo had taken enough steady breaths to soothe their fears. They were only just beginning to believe what they saw when more arrived. Each member of the company undertook the same process. Initially they were awash in relief that he had been found, then puzzled by his state, then knowing eyes noted the bandages and injuries, noted the haggard appearance, and then noted Thorin keeping watch.

No one commented on the King sitting awake through the night, for which Thorin was grateful. Just as they had not questioned when he had refused to acknowledge that Bilbo might be lost. He did not know what answer to give if he was asked.

Soft questions were raised, which Óin answered in gentle tones, refusing to give a clear prognosis. Balin reminded the room of the importance of secrecy until his fate was known, then mentioned the arrival of a delegation from Dale later that day.

Thorin had hardly looked away from Bilbo since the others entered, not wanting to see doubt or fear echoing his own. He glanced up at the tone Balin used, not wanting to reclaim his crown and be the King. As long as the cursed thing was sitting on the desk in his chambers he could be Thorin Oakenshield instead. He exhaled when he heard Fili declare that he was happy to meet with Bard.

They all drifted away after a time. He must have made all the appropriate responses since none of them bothered him to sleep or leave.

Or he was more imposing than he thought.

In the brightened room, the King of Erebor stared at the fragile halfling on the bed, noticing the scars across his face and neck. They were more recent, and mostly shallow. One was not. It ran up his cheek and into his hairline, barely missing his ear. Unthinking, Thorin brushed the curls aside.

Guilt returned.

His hobbit's curls were longer than he had ever seen. Most were snarled into a mat on the back of his head, another proof of how alone he had been. It was several minutes before he realized he had been gently untangling curls. He hesitated.

After everything that had passed between them, he had no right to touch the hobbit without permission.

"Uncle?" he spun to see Kili's young face haunted. "Uh, why wasn't Bilbo wearing his mithril?"

The question took a moment to process. Realizing that Kili was asking about when he was hit rather than the current moment, Thorin just muttered, "He was." Not knowing where Bilbo had been or what he had done, Kili frowned, forcing the King to explain what was wrong with their burglar. He explained how the mithril stopped the blade from piercing, making the injury more like being hit with a war hammer. He explained how the force had been great enough to shear open flesh over the broken ribs. He explained how the wizards had used their power to keep him alive, and brought him to the mountain, hoping, but not certain that the hobbit would survive in the care of a traditional healer. There had not been enough strength within the hobbit to overcome both the acute and general ailments.

Kili pressed for more, increasingly shaken by the severity of the wound, but Thorin would not detail the foe. Eventually he conceded, and went to leave, parting with a quiet reassurance. "I do not think he would mind you helping his hair, Uncle... ...You should."

 

* * *

 

It was bliss.

The quiet murmured song of gold and gems and wealth cocooned him. All it asked in return was that he keep it whole. He was more than happy to oblige. He would keep the wealth safe and secure within the mountain where it would be protected. Where it would be exalted.

The others though. They were dark blurs obscuring the glow of the treasure. They would secret it away, take away from him the joy of his hoard. They could not be trusted.

He watched. He prowled. He threatened.

They flinched away from him, eyes blown wide to see the power he held. The power the gold filled him with. The longer he spent away from the untrustworthy, the deeper the bliss ran. It wrapped him in a bright shroud of happiness he hid behind while the gold spoke to visitors and strangers alike. The further it wrapped him, the less he minded allowing the hoard to deal with the others.

Except for one.

One of them came to him each day, but was no shadow. He was a gleaming point of piercing white that lanced through the shroud with persistent words and smiles. For him, he would push back the thrall of gold and speak for himself. He would keep that one safe so he could remain with the hoard, protected, secure, bright and glowing like the gold he would surround him with.

When the gold sang in his veins of betrayal and the visitor of light turned to another traitorous shadow keeping him from what ought to be his; the tidy nest of golden bliss turned to a tangle of brambles. Trapped in it, hounded by the words of the shadows who had plagued him for so long, he had escaped. Memories pecked at him, worried at him, slipping within the veil that protected him from fear. The words of the bright creature struck the death blow, and the haze of gold collapsed to leave him trembling in the aftermath.

Then the guilt swept over Thorin and he thought that he would drown in it.

 

* * *

 

Returning to the world after so long in the dark of healing potions and pain was terrifying. The last thing he had seen had been Bilbo striding across the ice while he bled, unable to even call to him.

Healers bustled over him until they were convinced that the King Under the Mountain seemed determined to live. Then there was an endless blur of kin and Company members sitting beside him to tell stories and fill the holes in Thorin's memory. When the sun set without the burglar visiting, he was forced to ask why. Kili and Balin looked away, suffering.

"We don't know where he is. He's not been seen. Not since Ravenhill." Kili said quietly to his boots.

Furious with himself for not asking after his hobbit first, he informed them of what he had seen, and demanded that Gandalf be found.

At least he had not been left thinking that Bilbo hated him. His arrival on Ravenhill, the words he spoke, and the look they had shared before hearing Fili were enough to reassure him. He knew he did not deserve it, but was certain that he had the hobbit's forgiveness.

None but the wizards gave his story credence. His kin bit back their instincts and did not say aloud that if Bilbo had gone after the retreating orcs, he was dead by now. None commented on the absence of a corpse since they all knew it would have been taken as food for the retreating forces. Saying it aloud would have been too much. Thorin could not bring himself to give them the full details, could not tell them that Bilbo had not gone after the orcs in the blind rage of battle. He had gone to kill Azog, his very being consumed with a need for fiery vengeance that Thorin had recognized reflecting what had for long defined his own soul.

The wizards went.

A raven arrived after a few weeks placing them to the north of the mountain, trail found, but uncertain of the hobbit's fate.

Thorin returned to health. He helped to clear the most crucial chambers and passages. They held a coronation at Yule. He stopped speaking of Bilbo, unwilling to subject himself to the repulsive blend of pity and resignation that darkened the eye of them all, even Kili.

He overheard Dwalin talking to the princes, reminding them that "Bilbo was a gentle thing. He had no place goin' out in the wilds. Not without us." The use of the past tense hurt more than Thorin would admit.

He lost his temper at times, but less than he had before the reclamation. He tried to push it from his mind.

 

* * *

 

There were times during that month between awakening and speaking again, when Bilbo, still recovering, would catch his eye and leave him an opportunity. The hobbit just quirked an eyebrow or tweaked his nose and almost inclined his head towards a door, but did it without judgement or censure.

Both of them knew that there was unfinished business between them.

That was hard to deny after their aborted conversation. It was compounded by how abruptly Thorin had cut off his confession about Ravenhill. It was aggravated by the sad, pensive look Bilbo got when his fingers idly found the beads in his hair. They weren't courtship beads, the impropriety of plaiting  _those_  into another's hair without speaking at length first would have been too much for his freshly crowned head to withstand.

They were Durin beads.

Which was, in many ways, a far broader claim. Balin made allusion to it, but did not speak directly. Dwalin gave him a substantial look when Thorin was caught watching the hobbit from the hall.

The burglar in question had been staring into a roaring fire, wrapped in dwarvish attire-his only option until spring caravans arrived. He had a tender half smile curling his lips as he gently spun one of the beads. His hair glinted gold as it framed his face and tumbled onto his shoulders. After a quiet dinner with the rest of the company, Bilbo had slipped away on his own, leaving the others to assume that he needed rest. Thorin had followed not long after with a vague reference to consulting Dis by raven. Pretense, obviously. He had gone hoping to find the strength to continue their conversation.

But he had frozen on the threshold, and he had been found by Dwalin.

The smirk playing at the cheek of his greatest friend provoked a faint flush and forced him to walk away instead of joining the solitary hobbit.

Fili was the one to finally comment outright. He and his brother had walked into Thorin's chambers after luncheon and spoken without preamble. "Do you want the teams in the treasury to watch for a set of Durin beads for you while they sort the gold?" Thorin stuttered into silence without giving any answer. So Fili continued, "Since Bilbo is wearing yours currently, and it's a bit odd that the King of the Line of Durin can't be bothered to wear family beads, that is. So, do you want the team to look? Or would you prefer to commission something from the silversmiths once the work halls have been cleared and restored?"

"Or maybe you should just commission a  _different_  set of beads, Uncle." Kili always was the bolder of the two. His raised eyebrows and smirk attested to that.

"Or will you be asking for them back from our hobbit?" Fili continued as if his brother had not spoken. He was being teamed up on by his own kin. "If you plan to, I'd do so soon, yesterday I heard him asking about how long winter lasts here."

"I think you should do something in mithril. Maybe with amber. That's a nice bridge for him since he doesn't like gems much."

"The first caravans from Dale will leave by the end of Rethe unless the winter is particularly bad."

"But I think gold might suit his colors better. He does favor reds and yellows. But I guess he should get used to wearing Durin Blue now."

"He hasn't admitted as much, but we think he has sent a raven to Bard about possible travel arrangements."

"Rose gold would be gorgeous. Or, it wouldn't be traditional, but polished carved oak would be brilliant symbology for you two."

"You should at least talk to him."

"I think  _amad_  told me that the shards from the polishing of the Arkenstone were kept, but I don't think that'd be quite the thing given your history."

"You need to wear Durin beads no matter what happens between you two, though. Do you want -" Thorin finally snapped and jerked to his feet with the chair screeching protest behind him. His nephews fell silent instantly.

Bold, but not stupid.

For a moment he considered punishing them for such impertinence, but knew he would only damn himself. Instead he walked out of the chamber with all the regal presence he could cobble together. He heard his nephew's giggling echo behind him as he sought Balin.

His advisor confirmed his hobbit's curiosity in winter weather in the mountains.

 

* * *

 

He was a coward. Bilbo had hunted the scourge of his family across the wastes of the north alone in the middle of winter, and Thorin was incapable of completing a sentence.

It was an important sentence, but that did not alleviate the mantra in his head every time he saw the hobbit and failed to speak to him. After so long, he had over-thought his own feelings. By the time he and Bilbo spoke in the tower chamber he had lost the confidence to give voice to what he had discovered. After they had kissed, even his best efforts felt inadequate.

Initially he had meant to admit that he had discovered how much he had come to rely on his burglar and in how many ways.

Now, with his lips still tingling hours after they had broken apart in the tower, with Bilbo's declaration to stay wrapping him in comfort and certainty, his intended confession felt useless. For the first time since Bilbo had vanished into the secret passage, Thorin felt secure. He had lost his footing and his purpose with Bilbo estranged, then missing, then sitting just beyond his reach. Only now, seeing at last that the embers of affection he had hoped to encourage between them turned to a roaring blaze did he feel confident again.

The chance that the fire might fail had plagued him. Now that same fire kept him aglow.

His hand reached towards his braid, and a bead that hung in another's hair. Instinct. He had worn them for decades.

Impertinent or not, his nephews had the right of it. He needed to wear family beads, but he had no intention of taking them from Bilbo until he could replace them with something better. He smiled, broader and truer than he had in months and went in pursuit of his nephews. In a way, he was going to get to punish them after all.

Bilbo's chambers were directly beside the King's. If Erebor had been less cavernously empty of residents that winter, Thorin was certain his beloved would have protested having so much space when he could make do with more modest rooms perfectly fine, thank you very much. The rest of the company was so accustomed to calling them Bilbo's, no one had mentioned that the suite was more commonly called the Consort's Court.

He would have blushed himself into a faint to hear it.

That knowledge was why Thorin had so carefully planned for the evening.

His nephews, rather than being upset with their task had delighted in it. Even Fili had whooped and tackled his uncle, shouting confidence and reassurances. From then, it had taken less than a fortnight for them to find what he wanted. Recruiting the rest of the company had helped too, even if he had grimaced at his intentions being shared.

Whatever efforts it had taken to achieve were irrelevant, because Thorin had four beads stashed in a small, silk lined box.

Bilbo was seated on the ground, occasionally tending the small hearth to keep the flames cheerfully flickering. Thorin could have made a more functional heat source, but it would have lacked the cozy domesticity the hobbit seemed to exude in Erebor. Each time he added more wood, he would lean back against Thorin's leg with a faint curl of contentment playing at his lips. They passed a pipe back and forth in silence. The bag of Longbottom leaf Bard had sent had left Bilbo babbling with delight as he insisted on introducing the King to it.

"That way I can be certain you'll see it imported." He claimed.

Thorin was certain that with Bilbo setting the trend and the coffers of Erebor supporting it, the Shire would need to increase the yield within a few years. He handed back the pipe and trailed his fingers up to curly hair. For just a moment, he paused at the beads, then asked, "Bilbo, would you like me to explain these?" and ran his thumb across the ridge of the braid.

Bilbo practically flailed turning about. "How many times have I asked you to do so?"

"Many."

"And how many times have you told me you could not yet?"

"Exactly as many."

"So do you even need to ask?"

"I am attempting to lend this conversation a sense of formality, Master Burglar."

"Then don't allow me to stop you, oh King." Bilbo rose to tap playfully against the crown.

Thorin kept a hand in Bilbo's hair and quickly kissed the smirk into submission before letting his hand move to the bead that dangled by his chin.

"You were correct that I had braided your hair, which does not surprise you I'm certain. The braids themselves do not carry much specific meaning. These two," he gestured to the simpler set, "are generally considered convenience when worn like this. The other two are a form of a warrior braid."

"They look like Fili's."

"Yes, he also wears non-specific warrior braids since his mother is not here yet, and she has asked to have the honor of recognizing the actions of the boys with me. You have seen enough fighting in our quest to easily justify these." Thorin cleared his throat, "For what happened in the North… for that you deserve greater. I have not made public what happened while you were... away. Most rumors placed you at the tail of the retreating army, picking off stragglers as you believed yourself unwelcome at Erebor."

Bilbo frowned, started to speak, and frowned again.

"Does that explain some reactions?"

"Yes."

"If you will let me have your actions announced, and I desire to, then you will need to wear a five strand braid here instead as part of recognizing what you achieved. Don't worry, I am happy to do it for you any time you wish if you know not how." That earned him a gentle shove.

"So the different braids and styles you all wear each mean something? What in all Arda does Nori's...star thing… mean then?"

Thorin laughed and shook his head. "Only certain braids carry meanings, and there is a great leniency in where they are placed. But I do not intend to discuss the nuances of dwarvish braiding customs this evening."

"You… don't? But you said that…"

"I want to explain the beads. That is where most of the meaning lies. And I do apologize that I used beads in your hair that would imply to others more than you yourself understood. It was not done out of an intent to harm you but to recognize the great deeds that you had performed as well as the debt my family owes to you."

"You know, you said you wanted this to be more formal, but I'm starting to feel underdressed with you speaking like that. Should I go find a fur lined cloak, Majesty?" Bilbo started smirking again, and was subdued the same way. "So what do these mean then?" His hand joined Thorin's at the small flat bead.

"That bead is… it names you as a member of Durin's line. It is a Durin bead. A family bead. Yes." For all his awkward bumbling, Bilbo did not understand the nuances. "In your case, as it is well known that you are not being adopted into the lineage, it served to mark you as protected, as a dwarf-friend, and as...mine."

Bilbo's eyes shone with a fiercer glow than the merry fire behind him at that.

With deft fingers, Thorin unclasped the first. Bilbo stopped him before the second, "Maybe I like that, Thorin, being marked as yours."

"Then you will be. But not with these. These beads, or at least, this pattern have been worn by the the patriarch of Durin's line for generations. You are many things Bilbo, but you are not that. Perhaps you would be willing to wear these instead?"

He handed Bilbo the box.

Reverently, his beloved opened the lid and his face transformed. The persistent coy tension melted into something far softer, and infinitely more ardent. He gently extracted the two flat beads, recognizing them as replacements to the ones Thorin had removed.

They were mithril and pale amber. Kili had a good eye. Each had the carved runes of Durin's line but were not decorated with the usual dwarvish geometric patterns. The mithril was worked into tiny oak leaves and sandwiched between thin pieces of the crystal clear amber, with the runes wrapping the bands and a single rune over the face of the amber. They were detailed and delicate, and by the incredible smile on Bilbo's face, they were more than acceptable substitutions.

"They're… Thorin they're incredible. How did you even manage this, the forges...the workrooms aren't even cleaned yet, are they? But they must be, this was, you had this made for me?"

"Nearly. I made it for you."

A hobbit eyebrow quirked up in doubt.

"I  _am_  a smith, Bilbo." The eyebrow rose. "And Dis is a jeweler. Between myself and the boys we have absorbed quite a bit."

"This rune is different." He said, holding both old and new, "Does it say Hobbit-Durin or some such nonsense?"

"No. It says Durin's Champion." Bilbo squawked a protest, recognizing the lauded title, likely from tales the Company had told. "I did say that I wished to announce your deeds and my family's debt to you. This will serve as an excellent start. Ah… that is… if you wish to wear them." There was a pause, then a shaky nod from the curls pressed against his chest where his hobbit had hidden his blush.

"And the others?" Bilbo asked as soon as his beads were placed, clearly determined not to think about what would be said about the reputation of respectable Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

"The ones you wear now are truly just for convenience. They are just beads, I swear it. However," He stopped, losing his nerve even as he took the consort beads from their silk nest. Thorin knew he was asking for another sacrifice. His thumb brushed over the pink scar on his beloved's cheek, seeing in it all the sacrifices that had already passed. He saw every instance he had drawn on the strength of the gentle creature before him. He saw the toll it had taken. But he could not help himself from speaking when Bilbo caught his eye and they built together a forge bright blaze between them. Bilbo's vows would not fade, and if he was going to stay, it was only right he stay with all the honor that could be bestowed.

"However, these beads would carry more meaning. Great meaning. Particularly to me." He opened his palm to show the twin round beads. They were made with fire opals and gold. Simple in design, but made rich by the glints of color reflecting in the stones. Each had a simple rune carved in it, but were made striking by the opulence of the material.

He knew Bilbo had read a book on gemology while recuperating, and resisted listing the stone's meanings.

Soft fingers ran over them, still sitting in his hand, and Bilbo hesitated, sharp tongue held silent, waiting for Thorin to finish explaining. Impatient as always, it was the hobbit who broke the silence.

"Thorin, what would these mark me as?"

Champion's beads catching in the firelight, nearly vibrating in anticipation of an answer, Bilbo knelt, waiting, trying to keep himself still.

Even with the sight of their love crackling in the air between them, Thorin's voice tried to break as he answered.

"My consort."

And there it was. That world shattering smile that could brighten a tomb and that had drawn him from the darkness of dragon sickness. Bilbo nodded exuberantly and stilled long enough for them to be added to his remaining braids before rising to sit astride his lap in the oversized chair.

When they eventually separated, red lipped and rumpled, they set their foreheads together and savored the other's presence.

"Did you have any other questions,  _amralime_?"

"Mmmmm….no. Oh, wait, yes. One. Just one. You said that first day that I woke, well that you had discovered something, but you never said what."

Thorin stopped. Bilbo of course had asked for details of something that he had no words to express, which was precisely how he answered.

"I don't know how I would have finished that sentence, and thinking now, none of it seems to encompass what I would wish to convey. But at its simplest form, I discovered that all I wanted in this world, was  _this_." He pressed forward to reclaim his consort's mouth with every ounce of ardor and passion he had restrained since that moment.

It was a long time before they spoke again, but eventually, laying tangled under soft furs, Bilbo whispered, "So if I hadn't left, we would have done  _that_  instead?"

 

* * *

 

There was a great deal of cheering when the company saw the beads the next morning. There was even a slow, murmuring roar of approval from the dwarves of the Iron Hills.

Ori was told the story of Azog's fall first, and his recitation at the feast that spring was met with cheers and roars and enough back patting to bruise the consort's shoulders. Since seeing the beads, it had been known that some great deed had been done, but until it was announced in verse, it was kept secret. It silenced any whispers about the hobbit's right to carry the title of Champion.

Thorin beamed throughout. And as he drew off the rich fabric that night, he kissed every scar, turning each in his mind to a gift. Each was a token of Bilbo's love, and each was a symbol of how fortunate he was to still have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that this two-shot is going to be the foundation for further stories in this AU. I have planned none of them at this time, but I really enjoy Bamf!Bilbo, so I'll likely return to it.  
> I am giddy everytime I see a review email, and I'm doubly giddy when it has critique or suggestions (really!) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope the sweetness at the end makes up for Thorin's suffering to get us there.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the result of the BotFA release and my inevitable collapse into Bagginshield Hell. I sat down to write Protectors and kept typing Thorin instead, so I caved and just went looking for catharsis. This is unbetaed, a bit OOC and may have been a bit confusing for someone not in my brain while I wrote. Let me know if you have thoughts.
> 
> Many thanks to the good people of tumblr who voted unanimously for this to end happy not angsty. (Ps, I'm StrifingArtist there, and sometimes I post art) Ok, off to write about the detectives again. Love you all.


End file.
